


it ain't no grand design

by guardianoffun



Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [5]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Interior Decorating, Jealousy, Locker Room, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:33:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: George's home isn't very homely, so he spends most of a pay-check on decorating supplies and then ropes his not-boyfriend into helping him do it all.
Relationships: Ronnie Box/George Fancy
Series: Sure would be a bummer if he got shot and died... [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695859
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	it ain't no grand design

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i have a decorating kink or smth? sorry lol
> 
> oh an we'v given george some family bc he has big brother vibes

As days trickled by, bringing as always the pitiful heat of British summertime, George managed to settle into his new place fairly well. He had a mirror up in the bathroom now, no more shaving by the camera on his phone, cushions on the sofa and only two boxes still sitting unpacked under the kitchen table. He could even boast that most of it had been done himself, though not without some hard work. Despite his promise to Box, the last time they had shared a weekend here, the wardrobe had not been put up until his sister came round and insisted he stop living like a hobo. 

“Put it together,” she had said, a pained look in her eyes as she narrowly avoided stepping in yet another pile of clothes on the floor. “Or I’m going to set fire to all this shit.” 

“Ruthie,” he whined, slouching further in his seat. For someone three years younger than him, she sure could play the mean big sister when she wanted. It had worked though, George Fancy was now the proud owner of one working wardrobe _ and _a set of drawers. Filling them was another matter Ruth had given up on after a few hours. 

It still didn’t feel like home though. Sure it had his stuff in it, but something still felt hollow about it. All the time and money had brought him four walls and not much more. It needed a splash more _ George_. For the first, and quite possibly last, time George had the urge to actually decorate. 

One afternoon of home improvement TV and an indulgent spending spree on the B&Q site later, he had some idea of a plan. The off-white walls in most of the rooms could stay, though the sad bathroom would get a splash of blue, the kitchen some faux tiles to break up the monotone palette, and muted grey would really make the navy pillows in his bedroom pop. Forget Morse, _ All 4 _ did more for his vocabulary in an afternoon than he did. Content with his plan, George shut off his laptop before any other impulsive decorative purchases could happen and settled in for his evening meal with Kevin McCloud. 

He woke the next morning on the sofa, phone alarm blaring, in some sort of post-Grand-Designs hangover. He had in his foolishness forgotten the addictive quality of Kevin’s voice and had watched far too late into the next morning than was sensible. He scrambled through his morning routine, rolling the crick in his neck till it popped painfully, but managed to make it into the station near enough the right time. 

Jim looked over the paper cup of coffee in his hand and smirked. 

“You look like shit.” 

George huffed as he collapsed into his desk just opposite and shoved a couple of fingers up at him. 

“Yeah you look gorgeous too Jim,” he groaned, rubbing his eyes as his computer booted up. Then he stretched out an arm, waving wildly with one hand. 

“You got me something?” 

A twin cup was slid along Jim’s desk into his waiting hand and George smiled as he inhaled the smell of a triple shot latte. “This is why you’re my best friend, you know that?” Jim chuckled as he turned back to his screen. Taking a swig from his drink, George threw back his head and let out an exaggerated moan. 

“Oh God, that’s good.”

“Enjoying that?” came a voice, as a figure passed them, the smell of smoke following. Box winked as he passed, and George almost spilt his drink in his hurry to right himself. Jim was staring at his keyboard now, jaw set as he did his best to hold back his laughter. 

Box had his office door open, but stopped short of it to smirk back at them

“You look like shit George,” he said, running a hand through his neatly combed hair as if to make some sort of point. 

“Funny you’re the second person to tell me that in ten minutes.”

“Late night?” Box looked him over, the messy hair and unironed shirt, the clouded look in his eyes that said _ I didn’t sleep in my own bed last night_. His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly and George’s stomach twisted. Was he _ jealous_? He had the same look in his eye he got when George flirted with waitresses in the pub, but it couldn’t be jealousy could it? That would mean the two of them were - something. And they weren’t. 

Still, Box was standing there, one hand on his hip and head tilted, as if waiting for an answer. George held his gaze and nodded slowly. 

“Pretty late yeah,” then he smiled. Then, deciding to test his theory, he took another long swing of his coffee and moaned just a little louder than necessary. Then he flashed Box a smile. 

“Worth it though.” 

Jim’s bark of laughter stole his attention then, and by the time he looked back, Box was inside his office, the door rattling back into place. 

The day is a quiet one in terms of work, nothing new. George was still working a murder with Morse, but whilst the sergeant was off pestering witnesses George was left trawling through their victim’s social media. Though he wouldn’t put it past Morse to stick him on desk work because he was an asshole, it was mostly because Morse still didn’t understand what Snapchat was. It made for relatively easy work though, and by the time Morse rang around noon he was able to inform him that their witness was most definitely lying about more than a couple of things. 

Pleased with himself, George stretched his legs out, kicked Jim in the shins, and took orders for lunch before heading off towards the canteen. He stopped in at the lockers on his way, needing the kind of energy drinks the station hadn’t stocked since the vending machine ones were swapped out for smart water and protein bars. Before he could even jam his key in the lock though, a hand came down from the heavens and snatched it from his fingers. He was pressed quite suddenly against the lockers by a pair of hips and a hand on his shoulder. Fingers pulled down his collar and lips found his neck. 

“Ronnie-” he managed to gasp out, attempting quite halfheartedly to escape his grasp. The low growl of Box’s voice made his skin tingle. 

“What were you up to last night then?” he asked, and George had to laugh. 

“What?” A knee forced its way between his legs, and any lingering tiredness abruptly vanished. “Oh- _ sir, _” he was hauled back then, spun on the spot and pushed back against the lockers, this time with Box’s hands around his jaw, holding him as he was treated to one of the most thorough and breathtaking snogs of his life. When Box finally pulled back, George’s lips were sore and his head scrambled. 

“Uh,” he murmured, as Box straightened his collar back up. “That was - sorry, that was for… what?” Box shrugged, not looking him in the eyes. 

“Just saying, whatever had you up so late was nowhere near as good as that.” 

George froze as a smile crept over his face, and the twisting feeling in his stomach reappeared tenfold. 

“I mean sure was - I was only watching telly.” He snaked his arms around Box’s middle, slipping his hands into his back pockets and drumming his fingers against his backside. “You think I was seeing someone or something?” 

Box shrugged again. 

“Could have been. I don’t know do I?” he leant in again, pressing a slower kiss to George’s lips. “Don’t care either.” George held back a laugh, and nodded. 

“Of course not.” 

A noise outside, someone’s footsteps marching past, shook both of them from their quiet moment, Box seeming to shake himself as he pulled back. He reached out though, cupped George’s chin and fixed him with a sharp look. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Box asked as George pushed off of the lockers, stepping closer into Box’s space. He reached out a hand, splayed it across his broad chest. 

“You, if I’m lucky.” 

Footsteps sounded again, closer this time - someone else headed for the lockers. Box dropped his hand but held George’s gaze and grinned. 

“Luckiest bastard I know, you are,” he said, rolling his eyes. George flashed him a smile back, turning to finally grab his drink out from the locker. He could feel Box still standing behind him, the hot feeling of his eyes all over him. He cracked the can open and slipped back past Box before that feeling got any hotter. 

Out in the corridor, Box matched his steps as they headed towards the canteen, watching as George downed the can in one go. 

“Wait, actually-” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sort of lied. I wasn’t just watching tv - I might have spent half like, half this week’s pay on, uh, decorating shit. Any chance of a lift to B&Q tonight?” 

* * *

After making sure to leave Box in the car, lest he become lost in the power tool aisle, George made the sprint into the store, returning shortly with an overflowing trolly full of paints, tools, tiles and all manner of assorted decorative _ crap _. He wasn’t entirely sure what half of it was for, or if he even remembered ordering it but either way he was loading it up into the back of the car. 

Box watched in the rear view mirror as he chucked a couple on cans in.

“Oi, watch the car, or you’ll be buffing the scratches out.” George flipped him off. 

Box shook his head in dismay, but by the time George had returned the trolley was grinning to himself. George shrugged as he fell back into the passenger seat. 

“What?” 

Box started up the car, one hand on the wheel ready to take them out. He said nothing, but slid his other hand over, where it could rest on George’s thigh. It stayed there the rest of the drive. 

When Box - no they were out of work now - _ Ronnie _pulled up outside his flat and George hopped out before he’d even killed the engine. He let Ronnie pull the cans from the car whilst he unlocked the door and kicked a dislodged brick from the crumbling wall into place as a makeshift door-stop. 

It took a few trips between them up and down the stairs and by the time they were actually through, dumping the lot on the kitchen table, George was a little out of breath. He staggered over to where Ronnie was turning over a tin of paint, silently judging the colour choice no doubt.

“So you just ask me over for DIY and sex, or what?” he asked, staring at the cans piled up in the hall. George lunged forward and dropped the pile of dust sheets to the floor so he could wrap his arms around Ronnie’s waist. 

“I invite you for the sex, DIY’s a perk.” 

He pressed his face into the shirt on his back, whilst his hands held steady around his middle. Ronnie’s laugh rumbled through his chest and he wrapped his own hand around George’s arm. 

“I don’t _ have _ to paint now,” George mumbled into his back, smiling into the dip between shoulder blades. “I’ll do it at the weekend.” 

Plucking George’s arms off and swinging his around to face him, Ronnie sighed despairingly. 

“You’ve been here an entire month and the place is still a shithole.” He leant down, running a hand through George’s hair and curling around the back of his neck. George stretches up, to press kisses along his jaw. If he starts pushing against Ronnie’s chest, he’ll get him on the sofa, and there’ll be no getting him up then.

He thought for a moment they might have had the same idea, as warm hands reached between them and tugged his shirt from his trousers. He made an appreciative noise and went to help, when Ronnie laughed cruelly in his ear.

“Get this off, find a t-shirt; we’re doing this. We can at least get your room done before you give up.” 

Still a little reluctant to start, George couldn’t help smiling at Ronnie’s back as he led them to the bedroom. He wasn’t sure when _ I _ had become _ we _but he wasn’t going to complain. 

It was a slow start at first, the pair of them both stripping out of work clothes perhaps not the best idea. Ronnie was digging through George’s drawers, searching for the ratty gym tee he knew George had pilfered, when George pounced him. Twenty minutes later, they were sprawled on top of the covers, at least both out of their shirts and trousers. 

“I know what you’re doing,” Ronnie murmured in his ear as he rolled closer, laying a hand across George’s hip and squeezing. “Your distractions won’t work on me, c’mon.” He made to get up, slinging his feet off the end of the bed. George pouted, his hand catching nothing but air as he grabbed for him. 

“Seemed to be working pretty well,” he grumbled, scooting up the bed and curling around a pillow. Ronnie, now at the dresser, looked over his shoulder before slipping a top on. 

“That was yer break,” he said, picking up a pair of joggers off the floor that were certainly his. He rolled his eyes and wondered how long they’d been left there. “Clean this shite up would you? I’ll go find a ladder.”

Upon Ronnie’s return with the ladder, pinched from the back of the shop downstairs, George was finally dressed in his oldest jeans and a dirty-white shirt that was more holes than shirt. Seeing as George had only thought as far ahead as picking the paint, he was at somewhat of a loss with where to start. His skillset lay in the plumbing and wiring, not so much the artistic. Thankfully, Ronnie seemed more than ready to take the reins, shaking out a dust sheet and throwing it across the bed while George hastily shoved the clothes from the floor into drawers. 

They began, almost silently, setting up the paints, Ronnie pouring it into trays whilst George taped off the plug sockets. George found he kept getting distracted, as was apparently the norm now, watching Ronnie move around his space. He did it with such command, George couldn’t help but follow along with his instructions. Soon he was taping off the skirting whilst Ronnie went to town on the opposite wall. The goal was to have the two opposing walls both a light grey, breaking up the rest of an otherwise very white room. 

It wasn’t hard work, but slow going. Neither of them were properly experts, but it was only his bedroom, he supposed it didn’t really matter if his wall was a lot patchier than Ronnie’s. So drawn into the process of painting around the plug socket was George, he didn’t notice Ronnie had stopped till the quietness registered, and he saw a long set of legs out the corner of his eye. 

“Think this lot might need a second coat in a bit,” he said, pressing a finger against the centre of the wall and inspecting it. Still wet. He frowned and wiped his hand against his trousers, which as George looked up, he realised were pretty paint-splattered. Clambering to his feet, George realised quite a lot of Ronnie was paint splattered in fact. A smear across his chin matched the one his thumb, and it had caught in his hair like a bad dye job. 

It was disorienting enough to compare Ronnie normally to the DI at work, but even harder to do when he looked so un-Box like, stood in the middle of his room like that. George’s stomach knotted itself into something he wasn’t ready to untangle just yet. Feeling his cheeks suddenly warm for no reason he could understand, he pitched forward to bury his face in Ronnie’s chest, smiling when a hand wrapped warm around the back of his neck and lips found the top of his head. 

“If you’re trying to get out of finishing this,” he mumbled into George’s hair, “You got another thing coming.”

In fairness, there wasn’t a whole lot more to get done. The coving needed a new splash of white, but if they were going to make use of the bed tonight they were best to stop soon and leave the windows open. Ronnie cracked open a fresh tin of paint as George hauled the ladder over. It being an easy job that even George would struggle to bodge, Ronnie held him steady as he painted and twenty minutes later, they were very nearly done. 

George leant forward, one foot lifting from the last step as he ran the paintbrush along the last corner. Distracted by the way his ratty jeans rose, the flash of naked ankle and the fact he was eye level with George’s arse, Ronnie almost let his hand slip, and the ladder wobbled precariously. 

George whipped around, paint raining down on the pair of them as he did. 

“Watch it!” he snapped, free hand gripping the top of the ladder tighter. Box grinned back. 

“I am,” he said with a purposefully lecherous glance toward George’s backside. The paintbrush came down, dangerously close to the end of his nose. 

“Can you keep together for like, two minutes? We’re nearly done.” A devious look flashed across his face, as he slapped a stripe of paint across the end of Ronnie’s nose. “Then you can check me out all you want.” 

“Cheeky bastard,” Ronnie growled as he turned back, rubbing at the paint, but only succeeding in smearing it more. A shower would be in order later it appeared. Tightening his grip on the steps of the ladder, Ronnie managed to contain himself for the last stretch. 

Finally finished, George laid the brush back down on the top step and turned back to face Ronnie. This wasn’t an angle he usually got, looking down at him like this, but he wasn’t complaining. From here he could reach a hand out and pick some of the dried paint from Ronnie’s hair. Then Ronnie caught his wrist and pulled forward and George had no choice but to kiss the bastard. He smiled into it - it was just so different. He let his arms curl loose around Ronnie’s neck. Usually when they kissed, it was a case of pulling Ronnie down or clambering up him to get a good, proper snog. This time, it was George, a head taller than him, forcing Ronnie to stretch up on his toes to chase his kiss. George laughed as he lifted his head, fingers coming round to cup his chin. 

“I like this,” he said softly, leaning in and brushing his lips across Ronnie’s forehead. “Who’s the big strong-man now?” he asked, tightening his grip around him. Ronnie snorted.

“What?” 

George nodded, puffing his chest and putting on a gruff voice. 

“_Me Box, me big strong man, me crush tiny George between massive thigh_-” his parody was cut short as Ronnie growled and launched forward, grabbing him around the middle and slinging him far too easily over his shoulder. He fights, but not much - it’s coming up to six and he’s not ready to do _ more _housework. Slapping pitifully at Ronnie’s shoulders, he screams obscenities, which earn him a sharp slap across the ass. 

“Ow! Put me down, asshole, or I swear-” Ronnie’s fingers grazed his sensitive hip and he squirmed.

“Or what Georgie-boy?” he asked, as he began hauling George through the flat. 

“I’ll fucking kill you, they won’t even find your body-” 

“Oh really? What makes you think I won’t get you first?” Another slap, this time across the back of the thighs, and God if that didn’t set his heart rate spiking. He kicked out with his feet, slapped his hands but was only met with unyielding muscle, and that if anything was making this more enjoyable than it should be. He contemplated playing dirty and finding his way under Ronnie’s shirt, but before he could he found himself flung onto the living room sofa so hard he bounced. Ronnie stood over him, arms crossed and a devilish look on his face. George looked up, tongue already wetting his lips as he took in the sight of the big strong man, and his massive thighs. He trailed his hand down his chest, pressed it between his legs and flung them wide, tapping at his fly. 

“Come and get me then.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i did not proof read this bc i have a headache and yall just need to experience more box/fancy okay ily


End file.
